If Monsters Didn't Exist
by chromium clockwork
Summary: An ongoing collection of drabbles that will mostly though not entirely consist of angsty, one-side JacobxBella. T for safety.
1. If Monsters Didn't Exist

**If Monsters Didn't Exist: A Twilight Drabble**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Twilight. If I did, you would be able to tell. Trust me.

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A mirror is the flipside of reality, he muses.

It surprises Jacob Black, how human he looks in the mirror. He doesn't _feel_ human, not anymore; there was no ignoring the swift, persistent beating of his heart, or the rollercoaster-rush of blood that roared in his ears when he knelt down exhaustedly to pray for sleep. Neither was the well-oiled new grace to his movements quite natural. However attractive it might look to the outside observer, Jacob always feels like he is closer to the Porches and Ferraris that he admires in car lots—fast, sleek, and mechanical.

He raised his right hand—the mirror-man's left—and reached to brush his fingertips across the smooth, cool surface of the glass. A brief flash of memory, however, had him recoiling at the texture. The image of the wedding invitation, currently sitting on his kitchen table, swam in his eyes. His thoughts (untangled with the others', for what seemed like the first time in a while) swooped in an unpleasant, stomach-dropping way, before compacting sharply and forcefully into a single word: _Bella_.

Bella Swan—cold, beautiful, perfect, graceful, atypical, abnormal. Inhuman. Jacob Black—hot, fast, strong, sleek, freakish, irregular. Inhuman. And yet they both would look so normal, peering into a mirror. Jacob made a fist, and gave a last, hard look at his reflection.

Mockingly, it reflected back what might've been, if monsters didn't exist.


	2. Sticks and Stones

**Sticks and Stones: A Twilight Drabble**

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Twilight, there would be no happy endings.

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Jacob Black knows that 'imprint' is just a word: nothing more, nothing less.

Like déjà vu or the tantalizing edges of a dream he just can't remember, imprint seems to lay waiting on the tip of his tongue when he's around her. She doesn't notice, of course—like the blindly-in-love, bubbly young woman she is, she seems to firmly ignore anything that doesn't go along with her illusion of perfection. Not that Jacob blames her, he thinks wryly. If ignorance is bliss, he would trade his soul for a slice of it. But there's agony in watching the way her lips move when she's forming a refusal, and knowing it's the only thing that keeps 'imprint' out of his reach.

Jacob figured out long ago that there's more choice to imprinting than the rest of the pack thinks there is. Bella is perfect for him, would be his if she would just say yes. Of course, the pack calls it denial, wishful thinking, and in Paul's case, simple idiocy—but Jacob knows better, because remember, ignorance is bliss and there isn't an ounce of either in him. So because he's not a masochist, seeing the way her tongue flips the 'n' while her lips widen into the 'o' adds a burning feeling to the elusive tingling of 'imprint'—like eyes boring into his back, though he can't see them when he turns.

Sticks and stones can't break_ his_ bones, but her words can really kill him.


	3. Lips of an Angel

**Lips of an Angel: A Twilight Drabble**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Twilight (I don't believe in vampires) and even though this isn't a song fic, I did use a bit of Lips of an Angel, and I don't own that either.

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It's really good to hear her voice, saying his name.

Jacob Black is enthralled by the way her lips shape the words—they sound so sweet, like the apple of Eden (never his), coming from the lips of an angel. It's not so hard to think of her as otherworldly. She is too beautiful, too perfect, too inhumanly good to be true. Of course, thinking of her as inhuman in _some_ ways hurts more than others (oh, Lord, how he shivers at the thought of how her skin would feel, cold and flawless to the touch). Jacob tries to focus on how she'd look as an angel, with her body bare and skin flushed pink, with feathers in her hair and wings on her back, happy and careless and free.

Of course, with an ever increasingly frequency, his mind halts on those other images of her—her skin not just cold, but a marble-like white, unfeeling and unyielding to the most desperate of touches. The air from her mouth (once nothing but _Bella_) would be sickly sweet, like perfume tying to cover up the primitive scent of death, and cold as splinters of ice. And her eyes—oh, _God_, her eyes—red and starved and desperate to hurt and kill and eat and lose herself in her own inhumanity. Jacob sometimes wondered if it was a sin, to idolize such monsters as angels.

Good thing he's an atheist.


End file.
